


That Phantom Ache

by highinfibre



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, M/M, in which the captain gets what we all crave; basic human contact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23700991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highinfibre/pseuds/highinfibre
Summary: Such a simple gesture. It had to be, for that alone still floored him. His every nerve burned at once. And the weight of it all settled far deeper than the Captain was presently willing to accept.
Relationships: The Captain/Pat (Ghosts TV 2019)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 64





	That Phantom Ache

The foundations of Button House ran old and deep. A countless number had walked its floors, gazed out of its windows. Should the walls wish to speak, the chance their wealth of memories would run wholly dry was slim to none. Its residents were thankful they did not deign to. Aside from stray sighs and groans, Button House kept to itself, only bearing a passage to its undead inhabitants passing through. House and resident echoed in tandem, as much a reflection of each other as themselves. 

For his part, the Captain was a pacer. He would trace the perimeter daily with his deft and even gait to reaffirm there were no hairs out of place. Steely and stern, every about turn carried such an assurance. Despite being incorporeal, the click of his shoes almost felt obligated to manifest. He was hardly bold enough to claim his presence a welcome one, but he was nothing if not consistent. His duties were ones he took to heart, daily, with as much rigour as the red brick that comprised his home. Near enough daily. Today, he made a stationary watch. Back ramrod straight, he held position, primly clasping his arms behind his back from the relative comfort of the East Wing. 

Lips pursed, he rolled back his shoulders. The fingers of his left hand, gripped securely at the wrist by his right, ventured into an experimental stretch. He was offered an extra crease in his brow and a wince for his efforts; a perfect pair to the resounding crunch it solicited. 

He’d kept his position for close to an hour. It offered a decent view of most of the wing and, most importantly, it was quiet. No racket, no insubordination or, frankly,  _ ridiculously  _ inane flights of fancy he’d no doubt find himself dragged into. Despite his being incorporeal, his painful lack of much else better to do, he refused to be constantly cavorting like a child. It wasn’t very becoming for a man of his reputation. He simply wasn’t built for it- in body or mind.

Truth be told, the Captain had sought solitude for good reason. Not out of enjoyment - irritating as people could be, he preferred the company of others a sight more than one might first assume - but necessity. It kept all the prying minds at bay. Were another resident to happen upon him, they were sure to pry, and the Captain found he had little patience to wade through the Ache for his usual excuses. 

His undead status deprived him of many things. Freedom of travel, interacting with objects, or even experiencing the refreshing feel of a cool autumn breeze against his skin. Many of the little things that had made the tense stretches of his wartorn life worth living, resigned to being just out of his reach. All he was left were the sensations he’d most like to avoid. Those rattling shots of remembrance that slipped into his subconscious in the small hours, and that pervasive ache that sank into the very fibres of his once-aging bones. He could only be thankful it wasn’t a constant.

Yet when the ache did make its rounds, it did so with a vengeance. What had been a dull presence in the back of his mind had, come afternoon, evolved into a pervasive ache that encircled each of his joints in a vice like grip. It seemed to weave itself into his ligaments and cartilage. Everything was too tight, all at once too snug and rather loose. Walking became a chore. Talking, too, could serve to aggravate if it spread to his jaw. 

The Captain supposed he should count himself lucky that was not the case this afternoon. 

The aching confined itself to his lower body, and to his wrists, but felt twice as rotten to make up for it. Moving too much was hell on his knees, but sitting down should only cause his hips to flare. Quite the conundrum, if he did say so himself. His jaw tightened. Under the sharp intakes of breath, his moustache twitched, betraying the true, restless nature of its duress.

The Captain shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, wincing once more as he did. 

The seconds crept by.

In a ray of light, golden dust flecks danced and settled against the antiquated grain of the floorboards. Had it been bare when he’d first walked these floors, stripped back in preparation of mud-caked boots marching through? Or were he and his men simply left to run rampant, grind dirt into the flooring like careless schoolchildren. They had certainly been loud enough for it. 

So loud, and yet what was there to show for it? The atmosphere was still, and had been for decades.

Well, aside from the rather loud commotion downstairs. 

The Captain’s head snapped to the direction of the noise he could hear. Raised voices, mostly ignorable, had now risen to be unbearable. Good  _ Lord _ , could they not suffer a few hours in each other’s presence without himself there to wrangle them all? On further consideration, the Captain concluded, he should have expected less. He could rarely stand some of his fellow ghosts for more than a few hours consecutively, good mood permitting. 

A sigh. 

This would simply not do. 

Resigning himself to suffering, the Captain cleared his throat, making quick time of locating the source of the commotion. He fell into step even more swiftly, his ankles protesting at every shift of his weight. Considering that walking required a lot of it, there was little wonder in the way his face soured. The indignance of it all swelled in him like thunder, mist descending to the point he’d barely registered his impending company. 

“Bas?"

Their eyes met. 

Unobserved by our Captain, Pat, having thoroughly exhausted his arsenal for conflict resolution, had begun his search for backup. Well familiar with the man's regular haunts, it hadn't been tricky. The real hardship, as the last few moments had taught him, laid in getting his attention. 

"Patrick." The observation came, astute, accompanied by a belated nod of recognition. "You..rather caught me off guard."

"I'd only called you five times." 

Their countenances danced, the Captain withdrawing swifter than Pat could break out his teasing grin. Tentative relief stepped back towards reproach, and it was all Pat could do not to sigh at the all too familiar frown.

Instead, his brows knitted together, softening. Pat tilted his head. 

_ I didn't mean anything by it,  _ the action spoke. 

The responding huff came without a thought, yet the Captain couldn't quite bring himself to hold his gaze. 

He rather let it drop, the action alone causing his joints to grow heavier. No scientific discoveries the Captain knew of connected the eye sockets with the hips, or the knees, but he resented it nonetheless. How pitiful. Further lines marked his face, moustache bristling as he found new ways to purse his lips. 

What sort of a leader couldn't keep inventory of a shift in his own surroundings? 

He was pulled sharply out of his ponderings once more. This time, by the gentle warmth of a hand just above each of his elbows. Pat squeezed gently, his look of light concern lost to our Captain. 

"Well I think I know that face." Pat spoke. "Come on, out with it." 

His voice was gentle too, in a way that warmed him more thoroughly than sunlight could have hoped to. Such a simple gesture. It had to be, for that alone still floored him. His every nerve burned at once. And the weight of it all settled far deeper than the Captain was presently willing to accept. 

So his hackles raised.

"Must you involve yourself in everything?" He barked.

"Oh, so shall I not bother?" 

He had been sharp, needlessly so, and oh how it hit him when Pat's face dropped into a scowl. His arms had withdrawn, first to fix his glasses, then to cross indignantly over his chest. 

"Charming, that."

Remove his kneecaps once and for all; The Captain was sure their absence would not be felt so keenly as this. 

"That wasn't meant for you." The Captain relented immediately, his guilt far eclipsing the brittleness of his pride. "My, ah, outburst. I've been rather out of sorts."

"You say that as if you'd think I wouldn't notice." Pat's stance didn't change, but his expression was fast softening under the Captain's contrite gaze. "I haven't seen you all day, and we're usually harder pressed not to. You know, with all the marching about."

Something in our Captain's gaze became pleading, and Pat's hands dropped back to his sides. One was offered up to him, and the Captain eagerly took it. 

"I think." Pat began, rubbing a comforting circle over his knuckles. "That today's not been a  _ great _ day, has it?"

"..No, it hasn't. Not since this morning, if I'm to be entirely honest."

" _ Basil. _ "

The Captain kissed him, to halt his complaints and because he could. 

"It was bearable - or rather,  _ was _ ." Pat's exasperated look was enough to have him amend his statement, but it was fond enough that he couldn't help but smile. "You had your Food Club. I shan't interrupt it on my account.

"Won't interrupt it for a  _ good _ reason, you mean. I'll remember that for the next time you're on one of your schemes."

But he followed it with a grin, and a gentle tug as he began to walk. The Captain lets himself be led, falling in a half step behind just so he could marvel at the man before him. 

Pat had rough hands, calloused from the physical demands of his work. The pads of his fingers could make the Captain's seem soft. It had been the archery that had done it, Pat had told him one curiosity-driven evening, he'd been practising in advance. The Captain, for his part, had a thin black line across his palm - the aftermath of a long battle with his mind, fountain pen, and a very brutal telegram. In his far from humble opinion, he couldn't think of a better match. 

The brief walk to the Captain's bedroom was undertaken in a comfortable silence. Familiar too, for it wasn't the first time they'd made the trip for reasons such as this, altering their pace in time with any flare ups that occured. Once they reached their destination, the Captain’s eyes brightened, a fond (excited?) smile threatening to creep in.

“Well,” He spoke with some attempt of nonchalance, the type easily undercut by the way he bounced on the balls of his feet. “you know the drill.” 

“Yes, sir!” Pat rolled his eyes at the poorly concealed eagerness, and gave a little salute. It earned him quite the look, but he paid it no mind. He’d let him mither just this once - and many more times in the years to come. But he’d never claimed to be a man without his weaknesses, and his Basil just so happened to be one of them.

Especially on these sorts of days. 

Pat made his way to the bed, shifting over until he sat in the middle of it. The Captain oversaw it all with increasing anticipation. It was with more precision that he lowered himself onto the bed, wincing a little at the crack of his knees. It did him no immediate favours, but it was undoubtedly worth it to settle into Pat’s open and waiting arms. 

He’d learnt not to be perturbed by the lack of a beating heart. Far from it; the moment he could rest his head against Pat’s chest a great deal of his tension went away. This was far from the first time they’d done this, and he certainly hoped it wouldn’t be the last, but he still had to get used to it. Don’t misunderstand him - The Captain was an independent man - but there was something in the act of being held, being  _ wanted _ . Every fibre of him reached for and craved it. If this was how he was permitted to fritter his afterlife, then he’d take the aches twice over. 

“Where does it hurt?”

“Hm?”

“Your joints.” Pat elaborated. “Which I’ll guess is the problem today.”

“Hm.” Came the resigned reply. “All the usual offenders. Knees, ankles, wrists…”

“Ooh, that’s not fun. What were you doing standing about if you were feeling like that.?”

“The lesser evil, Pat. Sitting did me few favours, and the last thing I want is to be chasing after the others.”

Pat touched a placating kiss to the top of his head, gesturing for the Captain’s hand. He offered it up without a word, made a pleased noise when Pat carefully began to massage it. Something so simple wouldn’t solve his pains, but the pressure was soothing. The Captain allowed his eyes to slip shut. 

“What  _ were _ they all arguing over this time?” He asked, suddenly. “They may as well have been stood next to me, for how they went on.”

Pat chuckled, and the Captain delighted in the way it made his chest shake.

“Trust me, Bas, be glad you weren’t involved. Drove me to the end of my wits, so you can imagine. It were something silly that started it an’ all.”

The Captain was quite sure he could imagine. If being confined to the same few acres with the same few inhabitants for nearly a century gave you anything, it was entirely too much information on the idiosyncrasies of its inhabitants - as well as exactly how each one of them could grate on yourself and everyone else. Still, he had asked. So he shifted, just enough that he could watch Pat while he spoke. 

Now that was something he’d never tire of. The warm glint of his eyes, the way his head wobbled as he explained something particularly confounding. And all the while he kept massaging his wrist, even taking the time to give both hands equal attention. It was all so uniquely Pat. The Captain smiled, openly now, his crow’s feet crinkling in a leisurely fondness. 

“Pat?” He murmured.

“Hm?”

For a moment, all the Captain could do was continue to stare.

“Thank you.” He said.

Pat blinked, taken aback. He took a moment to respond. “What’s brought this on?”

The Captain couldn’t bring himself to withhold the chuckle that prompted. It rumbled low in his chest. 

“Can’t I thank the man I love?” He asked. It still thrilled him that it was a phrase he could say. “Especially when he’s being this good with his hands.”

Pat almost smirked. “So there was a reason after all.  _ I _ see.” 

The Captain might have been affronted, had Pat not leant down to kiss him. The angle was awkward, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind it. He’d be willing to put money on the notion that Pat was of a similar mind.

“Has it eased off any?” Pat asked, once they pulled away. 

The Captain shook his head. “I don’t expect it will today, which is awfully inconvenient. Though the company doesn’t hurt, I must say.”

“Well I won’t be going anywhere.” Pat assured him. “Not if you don’t want me to. You’ve got your view an’ all - I can see why you were so quick to put dibs on it.”

Pat angled his head towards the window. Not only did it offer a good view of the grounds, but the lake too, if you angled it right. It was the sort of picturesque one might find on a postcard, or in amongst a Monet exhibit. The Captain enjoyed it regardless. During the war (and more recently, in those too-quiet moments) it afforded him a grim sense of comfort, being able to see with his own eyes that all was quiet on the Home Front. These days he just liked the look of it, and the small luxury that it afforded him. 

He settled back down, humming contentedly when Pat ran his hands through his Captain's hair. 

“I know what I want, when it truly comes down to the wire.”

And, if he did come down to it, the Captain was quite sure that he had it. A quiet moment or two to watch the world pass by, and a man who would join him long enough to chase old aches and pains away. Pat, who shone brightly enough to make most things seem brighter. 

He did not know how long the two of them stayed there, happy and together, but he found he did not care.The true ache, the one in his core, was silenced, and he felt light and without fear. It was more than he could ever have asked for.

Truthfully, it was more than he had ever hoped or expected himself to see.

The walls of Button House did not talk. But they remembered well enough, especially those who had parted loudly and unfulfilled. What harm could there be in reminiscing a little longer, and share the one thing it had too much of; a little more time. 

**Author's Note:**

> The Captain's full name, for anyone that's intersted, is Basil Davids. I quite like it.


End file.
